“So this is the famous marchese?” he said, raising his eyebrows at Lattarullo.
“Yes, the aristocrat who lives up there on the hill. The one whose chauffeur tried to kill us yesterday.”
“What does he want from me?”
Lattarullo shrugged and pulled his fish face. “Bo!” he replied unhelpfully. Thomas turned to Jack. Jack imitated the carabiniere.
“Bo! Let’s go and find out. Perhaps he wants to apologize for his chauffeur.”
“Then we should accept,” Thomas replied, slipping the card back into the envelope. “It’s only polite. However, I imagine it’s just an excuse to introduce himself. I know the type. Love to tell you a bit about themselves and how important they are.”
“They say he has a wine cellar the size of a house. That the Germans didn’t find it. It’s worth the visit just for that,” said Lattarullo, passing a dry tongue over scaly lips. “I had better accompany you. Besides, you don’t know the way.”
That afternoon the three of them set off along the dusty track. After a short drive, Lattarullo turned up a steep hill where the track curved around a sharp bend. The trees encroached further and further into the road until it was almost impossible to get the car through. It struggled on, choking and retching like a sick old man, until finally a pair of imposing black gates indicated the entrance to Palazzo Montelimone. They were rusting and peeling and overgrown with years of neglect. It was as if the forest were slowly invading the grounds, winding its green tentacles around those gates until one day they and the house would disappear completely, swallowed up by the superior force of nature.
They drove in, silenced by the scene. The building itself was beautiful yet corroded by lack of care and the ruthless abuse of time. Wisteria was tumbling over itself in glorious abundance as if the palazzo were trying to mask the rot with luxurious garments. The gardens were wild. Flowers had valiantly seeded themselves everywhere, but nothing could prevent the gradual choking by evil-intentioned weeds.
Lattarullo parked the car in front of the elaborate façade of pediments and moldings that rose up to towers and turrets and a tattered flag flying weakly in the breeze. Immediately the vast door opened in a silent yawn. A bent old man in black stood solemnly waiting for them. Thomas and Jack recognized him immediately as the marchese’s chauffeur.
“He’s as loyal as a dog,” said Lattarullo, not bothering to hide his loathing. “He’s worked for the marchese for decades. He’d sell his gold teeth for him if he had to. What he knows is nobody’s business and he’ll take it all to the grave. Shouldn’t be long!”
“He’s not going to pop off while there’s all that wine hidden in the cellars,” said Thomas to Jack with a laugh. “That wine is keeping him alive.” Then Lattarullo, who hadn’t understood their English, said exactly the same thing in Italian.
They climbed out of the car and Alberto greeted them stiffly, without even the smallest hint of a smile. He looked as if he hadn’t smiled in years. Or perhaps ever. They followed him into the dark hallway, through a shady courtyard where grass grew up between the paving stones and beyond, to the main body of the house. As they walked through the rooms, each more enchanting than the last in the intricate moldings and pale pinks and blues painted on the walls, the tapping of their shoes echoed about the high ceilings: there was no furniture to absorb the sound and the tapestries had long since disappeared. Marble fireplaces framed cold, empty grates and the glass on the tall windows was stained with mold. An eeriness pervaded the building, as if they were walking among ghosts.
Finally they reached one of the few rooms in the house that was occupied. There in an armchair sat a dignified gentleman of about seventy, surrounded by a vast library of beautifully bound books, a large globe, and two giant paintings. His gray hair was brushed back off his face, still handsome with a straight Roman nose and deep aquamarine eyes. He was impeccably dressed in a pressed shirt and tweed jacket with a silk scarf tied neatly about his neck. His origins were most certainly northern, for he was fair-skinned, and he held himself with the poise of a prince.
“Welcome,” he said in perfect English, rising from his chair. He walked toward them, emerging from the gloom to shake their hands. He nodded at Lattarullo, then, much to the carabiniere’s disappointment, told Alberto to take him to the kitchen for bread and cheese. He then gestured for them to sit down. “How do you find my town, Lieutenant Arbuckle?” he asked, pouring them tea that had been carefully laid out on a silver tray. The china was thin and elegant and painted with delicate vines. Such a tea set seemed quite out of place in that shabby room.
“It is charming, marchese,” Thomas replied with equal formality.
“I hope you have taken time to look around. The hills are especially beautiful at this time of year.”
“Indeed they are,” agreed Thomas.
“It is a town full of simple people with little education. I was fortunate. My mother gave me an English tutor, after which I was sent to Oxford. Those were the happiest days of my life.” He tapped his long fingers on the arm of his chair. His hands reminded Thomas of a lady concert pianist’s. He then heaved a wheezy sigh. Asthmatic perhaps, or some other lung complaint. “These folk are full of superstitions,” he continued. “Despite living in the twentieth century, they are obsessed with relics of medievalism. I keep my distance, living up here on the hill. I have a good view of the ocean and the harbor. I see who comes in and who goes out. I have a telescope, you see, out there on the terrace. I do not get involved in their rituals. However, rituals keep the people’s minds occupied and therefore out of trouble, and the people of the south are very religious. I grew up here with my brothers and sisters, though where they are now I do not know, or if indeed they are still living. A bitter feud drove a splinter through the heart of our family. I was left with this palazzo. Perhaps if I had married, it might have benefited from the attentions of a woman, but sadly I did not and now never will. The house is falling about my ears, pushing me further and further into its core until there will be nothing left but this room. It survived the Germans but it won’t survive the years. They are unforgiving. Are you married, Lieutenant Arbuckle?”
“No, I am not,” he replied.
“War is no time for love, is it?”
On the contrary, thought Thomas, but he said instead, “I am happy I haven’t left a woman behind in England. If I get killed only my mother will mourn me.” He thought of Freddie and his stomach twisted with pain. At least Freddie hadn’t had a wife either, or children for that matter. He suddenly felt depressed and wished the man would get to the point of their meeting. It was dark in that room and the air was stale. It smelled like an old crypt.
“And you,” the marchese said, turning to Jack. “I see you still have your little furry friend.” Jack’s mouth fell open in surprise. Slowly Brendan crept out of his pocket like a naughty schoolboy discovered in the pantry. “If you travel inland, which I don’t presume you will, you had better hide him. There is great hunger. People are selling their own daughters for food.”
“Brendan has survived worse than hungry Italians, marchese,” said Jack, unusually respectful. The marchese had an aura of quiet importance.
“I imagine that you two were friends before the war,” he said.
“We were at Cambridge together,” Thomas replied.
“Ah, Cambridge. Then you are my rival!” He laughed, looking directly at Thomas. But the laugh didn’t reach his eyes.
The marchese did not want to talk about the war. He didn’t ask why Thomas and Jack were in Incantellaria; with his telescope and apparent omniscience he must have known. He talked about his childhood in the palace, rarely making visits to the town, certainly never mixing with the other children there. It was as if they lived behind a pane of glass, he said. They could watch what went on but never be part of it.
“How long will you be our guests?” he asked suddenly. Thomas thought that now would be an appropriate moment to shrug like Lattarullo and pull a fish f
ace, but he replied that they’d probably be summoned back to base in the morning. “War is a dreadful business,” the marchese continued, getting to his feet. “Now they’re stuck in Monte Cassino. Do you really think the Allies will win? They’ll trip up. What a waste of magnificent young men. People never learn from history, do they? We blunder on, making the same mistakes our fathers and grandfathers made. We think we’ll make the world a better place and yet, little by little, we destroy it. Come, let me show you my telescope.”
They walked through the moldy French doors out onto the terrace, squinting in the sunlight. Thomas felt the fresh air like a wave of cool water that revitalized his senses. He looked about him. Once a manicured garden must have extended down the slope to an ornamental lake that now lay stagnant like a shallow wadi. He could imagine women in beautiful dresses wandering around the willow trees in pairs, chatting beneath their parasols, gazing at their pretty reflections in the water. It must have been breathtaking then, before time and abandon had robbed it of its glory. But now no one cared. It lay dying before him, like the house. Like the coughing old marchese in his airless room, clinging to the last of the family traditions.
The marchese walked over to the instrument that stood pointing down into the harbor. He looked through it, turned a dial here, pressed a button there, and then stepped aside for Thomas. “What do you make of that?” he said, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Ingenious, isn’t it?” Thomas could see the village clearly. The streets were quiet. He focused on his boat. Trusty old Marilyn. The boys were just hanging around, mobbing about, discipline all but gone. He wouldn’t be able to keep them here for much longer. His heart lurched at the thought of leaving. He had only just met Valentina. He now scanned the quayside for her, but she was not there.
“Ingenious,” he repeated flatly. He would trade places now with the marchese, just to be near her. Jack took a turn.
“Do you stargaze?” he asked. The marchese was thrilled to be asked and embarked on a lengthy description of the constellations, shooting stars, and planets, his Italian accent becoming more pronounced as he no longer concentrated on how he sounded.
Thomas stood with his hands on the balustrade, gazing down at the sea that glittered in the afternoon sun. He was relieved when Lattarullo appeared, his belly bursting over his trousers from the bread and cheese. Alberto seemed even more skeletal; he looked as if he hadn’t eaten for centuries.
“We had better be going,” said Thomas, still bewildered as to the purpose of their invitation.
“It has been a pleasure,” said the marchese with a smile, shaking his hand.
As they were on the point of leaving, a young boy wandered up a well-trodden snake path that wound its way to the terrace from some unseen place behind overgrown cypress trees and shrubbery. He was immensely pretty with a wide face, white-blond curls, and dark brown eyes as shiny as pearls. He looked surprised to see them but recognized Lattarullo, whom he greeted politely.
“This is Nero,” said the marchese. “Isn’t he beautiful?” Thomas and Jack exchanged glances but kept their expressions impassive. “He runs errands for me. I try to help the community. I am fortunate. I am a rich man. I have no sons and daughters upon whom to lavish my wealth. These are hard times. The war is not only fought on the battlefield, but every day in every town, village, and city of Italy. It is a war of survival. Nero will not starve, will you, my dear!” He ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. When Nero grinned, they saw he was missing his two front teeth.
“What an odd fellow,” said Thomas as they drove away.
“Errands indeed!” scoffed Jack, in English so the carabiniere couldn’t understand. He raised an eyebrow at Thomas. “Nero is an extraordinary-looking boy. One doesn’t expect to see that coloring down south.”
“There’s something not quite right about that man,” said Thomas, scratching his head. “I’d hate to think what he got up to at Oxford. The happiest days of his life indeed! What the devil were we there for? A cup of tea? To listen to him boring the pants off us about his family and the stars?”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. Baffles me.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. He had a hell of a good reason for asking us up there today and, what’s more, one way or another we have satisfied him.”
10
T he shadows lengthened and the scent of pine thickened in the evening air. The people of Incantellaria emerged from their homes and gathered in front of the little chapel of San Pasquale. There was a sense of anticipation. Thomas stood outside the farmacia as instructed by Immacolata and waited with growing apprehension for Valentina. He noticed that many of the townspeople held small candles that flickered eerily in the fading light. A grubby hunchback weaved in and out of the crowd like a purposeful dung beetle as everyone touched his back for luck. Thomas had never witnessed such a scene before and he was intrigued. Finally the crowd seemed to part and Valentina floated toward him with her dancing walk. She wore a simple black dress imprinted with white flowers and she had put up her hair, decorating it with daisies. She smiled at him and his heart stumbled, for her expression was warm and intimate. It was as if they had already declared their feelings, as if they had been lovers for a long time.
“I’m glad you have come,” she said when she reached him. She held out her hand and he took it. Then he did something impulsive: he pressed her palm to his lips and kissed it. He gave her a long, intense stare as his mouth savored the feel of her skin and the now familiar scent of figs. She dug her chin into her chest and laughed. He had never heard her laugh. It made him laugh too, for it bubbled up from her belly and tickled her with delight.
“I’m glad I have come too,” he replied, not wanting to let go of her hand.
“Mamma is one of the parenti di Santa Benedetta,” she said.
“What is that?”
“One of the saint’s descendants. That is why she sits by the altar to witness the miracle.”
“What is meant to happen?”
“Jesus weeps blood,” she told him, her voice turning solemn and the smile dissolving into an expression of the utmost reverence.
“Really?” Thomas was incredulous. “And what if he doesn’t?”
Her eyes widened with horror. “Then we will have bad luck for the following year.”
“Until the miracle happens again?”
“Exactly. We light candles to show our respect.”
“And touch the hunchback for luck.”
“You know more than I thought,” she said, the laughter returning to her face.
“Just an educated guess.”
“Come, we want to get near the front.” She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd.
It was dark when the doors to the chapel opened. It was small and rustic, decorated with frescoes of the birth and crucifixion of Christ. He suspected that anything of any value had been stolen by the Germans, or looters, so there were only simple candlesticks on the altar and a plain white cloth. Behind, the marble statue of Christ on the cross remained intact.
A heavy silence, filled with fear, uncertainty, and expectation vibrated in the air like the muted sound of violins. Thomas didn’t believe in miracles but the spirit of this one was infectious and he began to feel his heart accelerating with those of the believers. He sensed many pairs of eyes upon him, some of them hostile, for there were those in the congregation who thought his presence might prevent the miracle from taking place. Or perhaps they didn’t like the fact that Valentina had caught the attention of an Englishman. He noticed an elderly woman glower at Valentina, then look away with a disapproving sniff. He hoped he hadn’t compromised her by coming.
Although curious, he longed for the ceremony to be over, so he could take Valentina somewhere quiet where they could be alone. Just as he was envisaging their first kiss, the heavy wooden doors reopened and a gust of wind blew in three small women draped in long black dresses and diaphanous veils. Each held a candle which lit up her wizened face t
o eerie effect. Immacolata walked a little in front of the other two, who shuffled in behind her like maids of honor at a grim wedding. Their heads were bowed while Immacolata’s chin was up and proud, her small eyes fixed on the altar with self-importance. Even the priest, Padre Dino, walked behind them, carrying rosary beads and mumbling prayers. A little choirboy accompanied him, gently waving a thurible, filling the air with frankincense. Everyone stood.
The procession reached the altar and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta took their places in the front pew. Padre Dino and the little boy stood to one side. No one spoke. There was no welcoming address, no song, no music, just eager silence and the invisible force of prayer. Thomas’s eyes were drawn, like everyone else’s, to the statue. He couldn’t believe that a thing of marble would actually bleed. It would surely be a trick. He’d know. They wouldn’t be able to fool him. Everyone watched. Nothing happened. The town clock chimed nine. The congregation held its breath. The heat in the chapel was now intense and Thomas began to sweat.
Then it happened. Thomas blinked a few times. Surely he was imagining it. He had willed too much along with everyone else and now he was hallucinating. He turned to Valentina who crossed herself and mumbled something inaudible. When he looked back, the blood was trickling down the impassive face of Christ, scarlet against the white marble, dropping off his chin on to the floor.
Immacolata rose to her feet and nodded solemnly. The chapel bell was rung in a doleful monotony and the priest, the little boy, and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta filed out.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 12